


:D

by Doceo_Percepto, Sp00py



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Fluff, Gen, POV First Person, he just wants friends n cartoons, or how dangerous he is, the Ink Demon is a confused cinnamon roll, this is prior to everything going to shit, who is unaware of his abilities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-09-02 11:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16786288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: I shouldn't exist. But I do.





	1. Chapter 1

I am not what I’m supposed to be.

I know that as soon as I am created, as soon as the world yawns out around me and I become aware of myself _._ I _exist._ I hurt. Existence hurts. And I sense fear. 

There's a circle of people around me, and each one is afraid or repulsed. Each one is looking at me; some are backing away. I don’t know why they hate me, at first. I haven’t _done_ anything. I’ve barely been a part of the world for a minute, and yet… their revulsion is fixed on me. Just by being here, just by existing, I’ve done something wrong.

They have to know that I mean no offense. That whatever reason they're scared, it’s not my fault… or if it is, I didn’t mean to do it. I try to communicate this, but the only noise that emerges from my throat is a garbled whine. It frightens me. Worse than that, it frightens them. They scatter like ink droplets, until only two people remain: one hunched in some strange metal contraption, one tall and broad-shouldered.

Perhaps these two will be more understanding?

“What a shame,” the smaller one says. “Hardly looks like Bendy at all. We’ll need to work out the kinks before we try again.”

He sounds derisive. But… Bendy….? I tilt my head.

“I think it’s listening, Mr. Drew.”

Laughter. “Do you think it can even comprehend us, Thomas? Really? Look at it.”

For the first time, I wonder what I look like. I lift my hands. They don’t match. One is spidery black and thin, one is large, white and puffy. Something hurts deep in my chest. This isn’t right. _I’m_ not right.

“Bendy production stops until we figure out what went wrong,” the one called Mr. Drew says. “I can’t have this thing running around my park. It’ll scare off the customers and their money.”

“What do we do about this?”

“What you do with any other defective product: trash it.”

They speak as though I’m not there, as though I can’t hear, can’t comprehend. But I do know what they say. If not the words, the tones, the _intent_. I don’t know how to tell them I didn’t mean to turn out like this. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to look like. If they would show me, I could try to be Bendy, I could try to be what they want. But they aren’t giving me a chance. I try to protest, and it comes out as a warbling growl.

“I don’t think it likes that,” the one called Thomas says.

“I don’t care what it likes. It’s your company’s mistake: you deal with it.” With that, wheels squeak and Mr. Drew leaves.

Then I’m alone with Thomas, and his fear is immense. It’s because of me. Everyone left because of me, and now he’s scared because of me. I try to look innocuous, but it’s hard, because my body feels unwieldy and awkward, and because I tower a head taller than Thomas. Everything is wrong. And this body hurts, one leg twisted up wrong, my spine protruding oddly from my back. My face hurts, though I’m not sure why.

“Hi…. Bendy.” Thomas says slowly.

Bendy. That’s my name. I have a name. That feels right, if nothing else does, and I properly realize that I’m grinning when the grin widens. I don’t actually think I can stop that expression.

“Ummm….” Thomas looks around. I hobble closer, just one step, and Thomas flinches back.

Oh.

Right.

I shouldn't. Shouldn't exist. And definitely shouldn’t approach.

“Look, uh, Bendy, I don’t know how to…” he trails off, starts again, “You need a place to stay, until… Erm, follow me.”

He walks funny, at first, both trying to walk forward while making sure to always watch me, but I don’t mind. Walking is tricky, as I soon learn, stumbling after him on legs that don’t want to cooperate. Walking also hurts… every step twists that one leg. It hurts, but I want to follow him. I don’t want to be alone.

He guides me through strange hallways and doors, sometimes saying things like “c’mon... hurry. Before someone sees you. Joey’ll kill me…”

I hope this Joey person won’t kill him. I like Thomas. His voice is rough but his words are kinder than Mr. Drew’s. And he’s letting me follow him!

He stops just outside a small room. “All right, Bendy,” he says. “Um, go on in.”

It doesn’t look like a special room. There are big metal racks piled with lots of strange items that make no sense to me. There’s not much of anything else. But if Thomas wants me to go in, that’s for the best then. It’s impossible not to notice the way he shrinks away from me when I slunch past him. I try very hard not to linger on that, and I shrink away from him too, to be least offensive. I know how I look. 

I limp into the room, and swing my head around to survey everything. I’m not sure why he wants me here. Does he plan on showing me something? I turn back to Thomas just in time to see the door slam. There’s a click.

Then… nothing. Nothing but the soft dripping of ink.

Seconds pass.

It occurs to me he’s not going to open the door. I lurch forward and wrap my unwieldy hands around the handle like I saw Thomas do. Maybe he needs help opening it? Maybe he didn’t mean to close it. That sounds idiotic in my head, but I try to open the door anyway. I get a good enough grasp on the handle, but it doesn’t budge. It’s stuck. And then I pause. On the other side of the door, Thomas’ footsteps are retreating. Retreating, then gone.

I’m alone. I sort of understand now. It leaves a hollow, lonely feeling, but I’m not surprised he left. Everyone else ran from me. It makes sense he would, too. Mr. Drew wanted to get rid of me. Perhaps this is what ‘getting rid of’ is like.

I’m still grinning, because I’m incapable of any other expression – not like Thomas, who frowned and pursed his lips – but it’s not a good feeling, being gotten rid of. Even if I know why he did it.

  
I don’t know how long I experience being gotten rid of. I do know that I examine every single object in the room, and there’s a lot of strange weird objects, including a stretchy band that I accidentally launch across the room, and long strands of film reel that seem familiar but shouldn’t be because I haven’t been alive long enough to have seen them before. Those end in tangles around my legs which is at first very alarming, but after stumbling into and accidentally knocking over a shelf, I manage to free myself from the snaring film reels.

Soon enough everything is examined, and there’s nothing to do. I pace along the perimeter of the room, and wait. Part of me thinks I will be here forever, now. That this is my home now, this small blank room, and they’ll never let me out. Every loop around the room cements this idea in further, until I stop believing that people exist. I start thinking I’m the only thing alive in the entire world (and the entire world is this one tiny room), and this existence just marches on forever, with no end.

But that’s not to be so.

There’s a click. I freeze, swing my head towards the door. It opens. And Thomas is there.

There’s no way to describe the relief that rushes over me. I didn’t like being the only thing alive in the universe. My grin is just right on my face; some noise of greeting emerges behind it that has Thomas gazing warily at me. Right, he’s scared. The shame shuffles in a touch late, and tangled up in it is some anger. He doesn’t have to be scared. I never did anything to hurt him. I understand I’m wrong and bad and not the way I should be but I didn’t ask for that, and I didn’t ask for him to be scared, either. I've had time alone now to think about that, and time to feel resentment. 

Then Thomas gestures uncertainly. “I brought food. I don’t know if you... but um-“

Oh, he’s holding something.

“Honestly, we got this stuff everywhere. Nobody’ll care if a few cans go missing.” He pries the top off. There’s a strange syrupy black substance inside – I can just barely glimpse it from across the room. Curiosity drives me closer (better to ignore how Thomas tenses).

“You eat it,” Thomas says. “Like, uh-“ he makes a scooping motion, as if to bring the gooey substance to his mouth. It’s supposed to go inside. Though I’ve never eaten anything before, the concept immediately makes sense, and there’s an accompanying ache in my stomach that makes me think this is, oddly, something I want to do. Belatedly I realize my stomach has been hurting all along, but it was dismissed as just another strange pain this body invariably has. Only now do I realize it’s related to this eating thing.

He mimes what to do again, and I realize I’m supposed to imitate him. To eat.

Except his mouth opens, and mine does not.

I reach up to touch my mouth. It’s all teeth, glued into an unchanging grin. It doesn’t open. I don’t even know how to make it open. My hand falls back to my side and I sway in place, trying not to be too distressed about this and failing.

Thomas seems to realize the problem, and he rakes his fingers through his hair. “Right. Maybe you uh, don’t need to eat.”

No. I need to eat. I know I need to. I just… don’t understand how to.

Thomas mutters something else that I don’t catch because I’m too busy being upset, but then he starts to close the door and suddenly I forget all about not being able to eat. **I don’t want to be trapped again.**

My larger hand seizes the door, halting it before he can close it. It occurs to me how small he is beside me, the top of his head barely reaching above my shoulders. He steps back. I wrench the door all the way open and stand in the doorframe. Out of the room. Free!

It feels good to be free, even if I can’t eat.

Thomas stumbles several feet away, and he’s breathing hard. I feel another twinge of annoyance to read fear from him. There’s nothing to be scared of.

“Okay, Bendy,” he says carefully, “how about you go back into that room?”

I don’t want to.

“Bendy-“

I force my strange, lopsided legs to walk. I want to explore. So far I only have seen the room I was made in, with the weird scribbles on the floor, and then the hallway leading here. But along the way I had glimpsed other doors, other hallways. I want to know where they lead. I want to know where the other people went, the people that scattered when I was created.

A little voice speaks up, reminds me that those people probably don’t want to see _me_. I am repulsive, mismatched, too tall, all wrong. But perhaps someone will not mind seeing me. Maybe someone else will be all wrong too, and it seems selfish to wish for that, but then they wouldn't mind me, and I wouldn't mind them, either.  
“Bendy!” Thomas is trotting after me, calling my name.

I pause, and glance back.

“What if – what if I show you my office?” he pants.

Office. His office. I tilt my head to the side. It sounds like another confined space. I’d rather not. I continue walking, not quite sure where I’m going, but I’m going somewhere, and that’s good.

Thomas continues to trot after me, and even though I’m a little annoyed with his fear, I’m truthfully glad he’s coming along. I like the company. And it sounds like he knows this place. Maybe he can tell me more about the halls and rooms I end up in. I discover a fork in the hallway, and turn down the route I haven’t gone before.

“Wait wait wait- you can’t go that way!” Thomas skitters after me.

How puzzling. I _can_ go that way. Nothing stopped me. I glance back at him in confusion.

“That’s towards Joey’s office,” he hisses.

Joey! He’s said that name before. He said Joey might kill him. No wonder he doesn’t want to go to Joey’s office. I let out a low growl at the thought of this Joey hurting Thomas. Mr. Drew seems to have the power to order ‘getting rid ofs.’ Why wouldn't he get rid of Joey? Either way, avoiding Joey’s office seems best for now. Ah, but there’s another door very close. I march toward that with my unnatural, sloping gait.

“Where are you going?” Thomas yelps.

I wish I knew, but I suppose I will find out. I know something about opening doors now, so I grasp the handle and struggle to twist it. No, I saw Thomas do this, I can – there we go! I twist and open the door and find –

“AAhhhh!”

There’s somebody in this room. He’s clutching a mop, but as soon as he sees me, he drops it and goes backing up. Then he trips on a bucket and goes flailing down onto his butt.

I stand in the doorway, yet again a touch irritated (but mostly irritated because it hurts. I’m tired of people being scared. I don’t like it).

“What is – Oh Lord – Thomas, is that-?” the fallen man splutters, clutching his chest.

"Bendy," Thomas said tightly. "The first attempt, at least. Don't go running off talking about him. I'm supposed to-"

“What’s all this commotion?”

I turn. Mr. Drew is sitting in his metal chair, a big frown on his face, and his eyes are fixed on me with a look I really, really don’t like. “Thomas, I told you to get rid of this abomination.”

Thomas glances furtively at me. “Mr. Drew, I think he can understand us-“

“What do I care? That comprehension will be great once we have something that looks like Bendy, but do you see what this thing is? We need a good mind _and_ a good body, Thomas, not one or the other!”

His tone is grating. I want him to stop. A low growl rumbles in my chest.

“Yes, but-“

“I want this gone,” Mr. Drew says; conversely, I decide I want _him_ gone, and the growl deepens. How do I shut him up?

“I don’t even know how to-“

“Shoot him, drown him, something’s gotta kill the th-“ My hands thud down on the arm rests of his chair. I lean in, wondering how to get Mr. Drew to **stop talking** , when I realize that he _has_ stopped. He’s all squished up against the back of his chair, and his eyes are big and round. Ink drips over his body. Our faces are very, very close. People look weird up close. Lots of little details. But he's not talking and that's the important thing. That was easy! This time, I don’t mind the fear coming off him so much, because I didn’t like what he was saying and now he’s not saying it.

Without forethought, I reach out my smaller hand. Curious. Because his mouth moves too - all these people's mouths move and I just want to know how-

Mr. Drew jerks away. The chair-on-wheels slips out from under me, and then he's several feet away. "I don't care what you do," Mr. Drew muttered hoarsely. "Just keep this thing away from me." Then he's wheeling off. 

I step back and sway. I did it! I turn back to Thomas and Mr. Trips-on-a-bucket, grinning widely. But they are staring solemnly. Fear again. 

Oh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have a short chapter(?)

Thomas and Mr. Trips-on-a-bucket spend a few minutes talking in low tones while I stand a little further down the hallway and drip. They wanted to talk _privately_ but I’m not supposed to go far. “Stay where I can see you,” Thomas had said. I think they wanted me far enough away to not overhear them. They probably don’t realize I can anyway, because they’re right beside a busted pipe and a large puddle of ink. Anywhere there's ink, it's pretty easy to tune in catch conversation. 

“I don’t think he’s dangerous necessarily…” Thomas whispers.

“Just creepy.”

“Intelligent, though.” Thomas looks at me. “At least I think so.” 

This is strange conversation and I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do about it. It seems most conversations around me are for the purpose of figuring me out, but I have no ability to reply or add in input. Again I touch my mouth - or teeth, rather - and wonder about people and their very movable and functional jaws. 

“I don’t believe it," Wally is saying, "I mean, I thought the whole create-characters-from-ink was hokey. Just Joey bein’ Joey. But ya did it. Uh, sorta.”

“I’m supposed to -” Thomas gestures vaguely. “But I think – he’s got a mind, Wally. There’s somethin’ in there.” I suspect he's talking about the _getting rid of_ again. 

“What are ya gonna do with him?”

“I need to repair the machine for the next try. I don’t-“

“Another try? Ya gonna have another one of those runnin’ around?”

Thomas blows out of his lips. “Mr. Drew wants living cartoon characters. When we started this whole project, I was just waiting for it to fail enough times for him to give up. But then the machine made,” he pauses, “Bendy. Now it seems like he’s more determined than ever. But I can’t work on the machine if I’m watching-“ Thomas tilts his head towards me.

Not all of the words he says make sense to me, speech something I’m still working towards understanding fully, but I grasp enough to realize I’m causing trouble. Yet again I’m reminded that I didn’t come out the way I was supposed to. It’s a hot, unpleasant reminder. The wrongness is already a feeling I’m becoming used to. Something that is inextricably part of me now, and part of my existence, disregarding how much I’d rather it not be. But it has marked every action I’ve taken since I was created. It’s why Mr. Drew wants to get rid of me. It’s why Thomas – and everybody else – is scared of me. At this point I don’t know what I am apart from Wrong.

Wrong, and maybe Bendy. I like the name Bendy. I want more of that, more of Bendy, less of Wrong. Then a word snags me from my musing, and I realize I had tuned out the other two.

“-cartoons,” Wally’s saying, “Get Norman to set up an ol’ projector – and hell, maybe it’d keep this big guy occupied.”

“No, I’m telling you, the fewer people that know about him, the better.”

“Well, I don’t know how t’set up those projectors, so unless you got a better idea…”

“Just thought about putting him in my office, but he didn’t want to go.”

“Course he didn’t. He doesn’t wanna be locked up.”

Right, Wally understands! I accidentally make a keening noise; both of them jump and look at me.

“It’s the only option, unless someone is looking after him constantly.”

“Oh, I got an idea-“ Wally dives back into the closet; there’s a cluttering and clanging that sparks my interest, and then he re-emerges, clutching a small black object. “Hey, uh, Bendy-“ his lips turn up shyly at the edges. “Look at this – it’s you!” He holds out the object.

“That doesn’t really help,” Thomas mutters.

It’s….

I don’t know what it is. It has tiny little nub legs and arms. Gloves that look like one of my hands, but small and cute rather than large and wrong. It’s got a smile and cheery black eyes, and tiny horns. Wait…

I touch my own face. My grin, and then the ink dripping down over it. My hands march higher. Horns. I’ve got them too. It _is_ me.

“Oh,” Wally squeezes the toy, and it – it squeaks! “It does that, too.”

An intrigued purring rises up from my chest. I cross the hall and grab the toy from Wally (deliberately ignoring how he flinches back when our fingers brush), and examine it excitedly. Squeeze, _squeak. Squeak squeak squeak squeak_ –

“Well, it’s yours now,” Wally says.

_Squeak squeak squeak_

“Look what you did,” Thomas mutters. Oh. He doesn’t like the squeaking, maybe. I won’t irritate him with it.

“Whaddaya mean? He loves it!”

“He’s not gonna stop that blasted squeaking.”

“He already did.”

Thomas grumbles, but eyes me thoughtfully. “He does like it a lot.”

My smaller fingers pet over the horns and face of the toy. It’s grinning, but it looks like such a happy grin. My own smile doesn’t feel so Wrong when I see this toy. It’s endearing, and makes me happy to look at. And it’s… me. Sort of.

My touch smears ink over the fabric (I’m ruining it). I push away the unpleasant thought. It’s mine. And it’s perfect, even with a little ink staining it. Wally gave it to me. I feel bad for calling him Mr. Trips-on-a-bucket now. He’s so nice.

Holding the toy close to my chest, I look at Wally, wondering how I might thank him. Perhaps I should give him something, too. But I don’t have anything to give. Nothing except this toy. The thought of giving it away is a sad twisty one that tangles up unpleasantly in my chest. But Wally did allow me to feel so much better about things by giving it to me in the first place. He deserves to feel good, too.

Yes. Resolved, I lurch towards Wally on my crooked, uncooperative legs.

“Oh, wait wait wait-“ Wally stumbles back; Thomas straightens his shoulders,

“Bendy, no!“

I hold out the toy.

Silence. They’re both staring at me, and now I feel awkward.

Wally thankfully breaks the silence by letting out a strangely high-pitched laugh. “Oh, you’re just trying to give it back? No, you can keep it. It was a gift.”

I beckon at Wally with the toy.

He laughs again, nervous and high-strung. “You can keep it. It’s yours.”

A soft _murr_ , and I’m cradling the toy close to my chest again. I’m glad he didn’t want it back, to tell the truth.

“He’s like a kid,” Wally utters.

“Yeah,” Thomas shakes his head, raking fingers through his hair. “Like a little kid. Just eight feet tall. Look, we’d better get him out of sight before someone else comes by.”


	3. Chapter 3

Wally has a lot of questions. He rattles them off as we sneak through the studio (sneaking seems to be the only way to describe Thomas peering around every corner).

“How did ya even do it?”

“I don’t kn-“

“I mean, you made somethin’ living.”

“I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Is he a person or an animal? Little bit ‘a both?

“I don’t know-“

“How’d he turn out like this? Did you design him that way?”

“No we just put in the reels, and-“

“He’s awful skinny. What does he eat?”

“I don’t think he eats anything.”

“Does he-“

“I don’t know! Look, I don’t know much more than you.”

“Okay but-“

“Here.” Thomas bolts through a door. At first, I hesitate to follow because the last time I went into a room it got locked behind me. But this time Thomas is in the room too, and then Wally enters and waves at me. If I get locked in, they’ll get locked in with me, which doesn’t seem so bad. So I stagger in. It’s mostly small and blank, though a strange device squats upon a bench in the center of the room, a device with a square bit of glass and lots of little round protrusions.

I go to touch it, but Thomas swats me away.

“Aw, you should let him, Tom. Can’t let him go living in Joey Drew Studios without showing him some cartoons. My daughter loves em!”

“He’ll just get it covered it ink.”

“Then you ought’a set the projector up. You’re a mechanic; I’m sure ya can figure it out.”

Thomas grumbles but slinks up to the projector; I sulk in the back. Perhaps I could have helped. Though I’m not really sure how. It looks like Wally and Thomas are pretty overwhelmed by the thing, and I’m not even certain what it’s supposed to be doing.

“Is this one even operational?” Thomas asks at some point.

“I’m sure it is…”

Finally Thomas growls at Wally to “fine, get Norman,” and Wally’s off.

The few minutes that pass between are quiet, filled only with Thomas’ soft swears. I sway a bit, and then squeak my toy before remembering Thomas doesn’t want to hear it.

It seems like an awfully long time before the door opens again, and in walks Wally. This time there’s some behind him, someone a bit taller. I barely catch sight of him before he lets out a yell and crashes into the wall behind him - which is _alarming._ I jump and nearly crash into the projector before Thomas waggles his arms at me and goes, “Bendy no no!”

Right. Don’t want to destroy anything. But why did he jump?

He’s slicked back against the wall now, staring –

Staring at me.

Wally’s fluttering around him saying things that are supposed to be soothing; things about me. That yes, I’m what the Ink Machine made, but I’m harmless, I’m not going to do anything, really, it’s fine.

Ah. It’s me. That’s why he jumped. And probably why he’s now staring.

“Gent made this?” he enunciates.

This. _This_.

“He goes by Bendy. I think.” Thomas casts me a wary look.

“That isn’t-“

“Look, just set up the projector. That’s all I’m asking.”

Oh! Of course – the tall one must be the projectionist! I make a keening noise in greeting, but the projectionist only scoots himself further away on the wall. “I don’t want any trouble, Tom,” he says. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on here, and I don’t want any part of it.”

Thomas rubs the bridge of his nose. “You think _I_ want to be? I came to this studio to repair the godforsaken elevator, and now look what I’m stuck – urgh. Just run a few episodes for him, all right?”

Oh. I thought Thomas didn’t really mind being around me. But… he did lock me into that room, didn’t he?

I feel the projectionist’s eyes on me again, but it’s a penetrating sort of look that makes me feel like Other. I always feel like something Other, something Different and Wrong but it’s worse when he looks at me, and worse when I think that Thomas doesn’t want to be anywhere around me either.

“Fine. A few episodes. But keep him away from me."

I slink a safe distance when the projectionist drifts to the projector. I want to be least intrusive. To him and to Thomas. And to Wally, though Wally’s looking at me with an encouraging smile, which makes me feel a bit better.

Abruptly, light flares out from the projector and strikes the wall, emblazoning it in a grey-yellow hue. My ink flinches and ripples in surprise before I realize it’s not going to hurt me – or more importantly, Wally or Thomas. I can feel their eyes on me expectantly, but they show no concern about this beam of light. It must be okay.

Clutching the plush toy, I drift closer to the glowing wall. There’s a tiny person on the wall. Dancing and moving with the music. So vibrant and alive. I reach out to touch her. But when I reach, she vanishes into darkness. I – I did something wrong – I made her disappear! I yank my hand back in horror, and nearly jump again in shock when she magically pops back into existence.

She’s singing; her mouth is moving and a dulcet voice crackles through the air, but it’s not coming from her: the sound is still coming from the projector. It’s magic.

Mystified, I follow the light back to the projector’s ‘nose.’ (Norman shuffles back to give me space). When I block the light at the base, everything goes dark. Not just sections of the wall. I think I understand, then. That this is some image the projector is casting against the wall. Like the little characters are inside the projector. How odd.

“It’s an animation,” Thomas volunteers, seeming to grasp my confusion. “A buncha drawings slapped together to imitate motion.”

Drawings? I look back to the screen. I’ve barely begun to wrap my mind around this animation concept when a new individual appears in the corner of the glowing square. And once they do, I can’t really pay attention to anything else. Because that person has familiar horns and a familiar smile.

 _Squeak_ goes my plush, and I swing my head around to meet Wally and Thomas’ gazes. Do they know? Do they realize?

Thomas cracks a smile, and Wally laughs. “Whaddaya think, Bendy?” he asks. “It’s you.”

It is! I turn back to the screen – the woman and Bendy are talking now. Bendy’s mouth moves; he’s clearly saying words, though the only thing I hear is music – the same is true of the woman. Even though she moves her mouth, no words come. But still, they are speaking. Bendy is speaking. I study his mouth. There’s a way. I know there’s a way. He can do it, so I can, too.

Then Bendy shakes his head and stomps his foot. The woman is wagging her finger at him. They seem to be having some argument. They shouldn’t argue. I don’t like that. My free hand extends to stop them – and just as before, my reach makes part of the glowing wall go black. I let out a hiss. Get along. Get along and I’ll let you back.

When I pull back my hand, I’m delighted to find that they’re smiling again, and there’s a big wolf there too, and they’re all grinning and singing and dancing. Well. At least they’re getting along. The tune has gotten bouncy and cheerful; my body rocks involuntarily along with it. It makes me feel weirdly bubbly, and not at all mad about the arguing now. They’re doing all kinds of loose wild dance moves, and I wonder if I can learn. Their arms look so much less rigid than mine though… I look down again, and survey my arms. Yes, they’re longer than those of the Bendy on the screen. And of course, I have the one strange hand…. I transfer the plushie to my better hand, and curl in the fingers of my bad hand, wishing it looked different. Wishing it matched. I feel abruptly humiliated, put on stage beside this other Bendy, when he’s got two perfectly matching and normal hands. I sidle further out of the light, and stifle my rocking. Better to just watch…. To admire.

The music number finishes. The little characters bow, and then a big curly The End appears on the screen. I tilt my head to the side. The End? Where did the characters go?

The wall goes black.

I look to the others in confusion.

Norman stares back. “He really is sentient,” he utters flatly.

“He loved ‘em,” Wally squeals.

Thomas looks pale. He’s watching me with a weird look. “I created this,” he says. “I created him. God.”

“Quick, show him another one,” Wally nudged Norman. The projectionist mutely started rifling through a box of reels.

Wally turns his bright green eyes towards me. “Did you like that, Bendy?”

 _Squeak_ goes my plush. I did. But where did Bendy go?

“I knew you’d love it. The dame with a halo; that’s Alice Angel. And the wolf is Boris. He’s buddies with Bendy. That was one of the first reels,” Wally laughed. “Back when we was a small studio. Feels like eons ago.”

Alice Angel. Boris. The wall is still blank.

“Norman’ll get ya another short set up real fast,” Wally assured me.

“Look, I don’t mean to bolt…” Thomas glances at the other two and something silent is exchanged that I don’t understand. “If I don’t show Joey results on the machine…”

Joey again. A low growl rumbles in my chest.

Wally flaps his hands bizarrely. “Aw, go on. I bet these cartoons’ll keep him interested for a while.”

“What?” Norman interjects. “I can’t stay: Sammy will need me for the band. And I don’t wanna be around this thing.”

“Just a few episodes. Maybe show Wally how to work the projector?”

“No,” Norman says quickly, then, “fine. I’ll show him a few more. But I’m not letting Wally mess with the projector.”

“Jeez,” Wally crosses his arms, and goes off on Norman about something, but I miss it entirely, because Thomas is leaving. He's _leaving_.

He walks out the door (thankfully doesn’t lock it this time), and he’s gone. To… work on the machine, he said. I have no doubt what he means. I can sense the ink pumping through the walls. Can hear through it if I try hard enough. But what does he need to do with the machine? Why can’t he stay here? I like the cartoons, but I don’t want to watch without Thomas-

Yes, I can watch later. Whenever Thomas can next. Resolute, I force my strange painful legs to stagger after Thomas.

I make it about halfway to the door before Wally comes scuttling in front of me waving his hands wildly. “Hey, hey, Bendy. Don’t you want to see the next episode?”

Yes, of course I do. But I want to be around Thomas more right now. I try to politely scoot around Wally, but Wally hedges into my path again.

“Hey, buddy, Norman’s almost got it ready.” I’m not sure about that, because Norman’s actually staring at me and not doing anything with the projector right now. But it doesn’t matter.

I redirect again to loop around Wally, and yet again, he gets into my path.

Another growl. I like Wally, but I'd rather he not keep me trapped here. I don't like being _trapped_. 

"Come on," Wally coaxes. "We'll show ya-"

No. My hand clamps down on Wally's shoulder; he freezes, but it takes no effort at all to shove him out of my way and leave. 

I have to find Thomas.


	4. Chapter 4

I stumble awkwardly after Thomas, a low distressed moan oozing from my mouth. Wally doesn’t follow. I hesitate, almost look back. I’ve made him afraid. I’m so tired of people being afraid of me. I know what I am. I know I’m not right. I know the differences between me and the Bendy in my hand, on the walls and on the screen.

I squeeze my toy, and it comforts me a little. Squeak. Squeak. People call me Bendy, though. Thomas does. Thomas. He’s heading to the machine. I feel something. Something bad and wrong — wrong even for me. I hate the machine. It’s a low-bubbling emotion, murky and strange, similar to what I feel for Joey and Mr. Drew. But I want to be with Thomas.

I take another step, ready to begin my journey back to him, back to where I was born, and resolutely collide with a body. Papers scatter as he stumbles back. I did hit him fairly hard.

“Watch where —“ the sharp words are cut off as the man takes in my appearance. I know.  _ I know _ . “Dear Lord,” he mutters. He’s tall, not as tall as me (nobody is, it seems), with intense eyes that are focused only on my face. His papers lay forgotten on the ground around us, stained with ink where they touched me.

“Sammy!” Wally calls out. He did follow me. It makes me happy, though it must be just because Thomas left me in his care. “Sammy, look, I know it’s weird, but —“

“Who are you?” Sammy asks, ignoring Wally as he slinks around me to try to get between us.

I realize he’s speaking to me. Not about me. He’d not even screamed like so many others. Who, he said.  _ Who  _ am I. Not what. I hold up my toy and squeak it for him.

“Bendy,” he sighs. Yes, he understands. I think I like this new person, this Sammy. I feel bad about his papers, but Sammy doesn’t seem to mind.

“He’s nice, really,” Wally says. I nod and waggle my horns. I am nice. “And nobody’s supposed to know about him, okay?”

“He’s magnificent.”

A word I don’t know, but he says it so fondly, it must be a good thing. Magnificient. Sammy likes me. He’s not afraid of me. He hasn’t stopped staring at me.

I low. I need to go find Thomas.

“What is it… Bendy?” Sammy asks me. His attention is nice, but I can’t explain. I wish I could speak. All I can make are noises that bubble and groan unsettlingly. I step around him and Wally.

With a disgruntled sigh, Wally wavers between staying with Sammy and leaving him, before he follows in my wake. Sammy doesn’t, but I can feel his eyes on me, then I round a corner, and he disappears from my mind.

“C’mon, Bendy. We can watch cartoons while we wait for Thomas. He’d like it if we did that. Please?”

No, I shake my head.I want to watch them with Thomas. If only I could  _ say  _ that, but I can’t even open my mouth (Bendy can open his mouth, I saw it).It also makes me uncomfortable that he’s working on the machine. It scares me to think if it ever functions properly.

I encounter nobody else though I can feel and hear them like a constant background buzz through the ink. There are so many people here, so many voices. And none I’m allowed to meet. I’m a secret. A disgrace.  _ Wrong _ . I want to meet people, people like Wally and Thomas, people not like Mr. Drew or Joey. But I’m afraid of the reaction. Even with my limited experience I feel Sammy is an oddity, just as strange as I am. People like Norman or Wally or Mr. Drew must be the norm. So Thomas is enough.

I return to the ink machine room. The door is open, and I slow just inside. The machine sits there, a hulking, twisted chunk of metal that I can sense every part of. Ink runs through its veins, and its veins run from its body into the walls, into the floor. I feel there must be nothing down there but empty, gutted space to make room for the pipes.

Thomas is beside it, kneeling, half of his body inside the machine as though it’s eating him alive. I don’t like it. I don’t like the image at all. I still, unable to bring myself to approach the machine.

He’s working to fix it. To fix — no,  _ replace _ me. I can’t be fixed, my shape is as twisted and bad as the machine itself. But I am replaceable. 

“Thomas,” Wally says, slipping in and closing the door behind him. “I really tried to get him to stay…”

Thomas thunks his head and gives a muffled curse before extracting himself from the machine. “Dammit, Wally. Did anyone see him?”

I’m not meant to be seen.

“Sammy Lawrence. Which, I gotta tell ya, that guy is  _ weird _ .”

I’m weird. I’m wrong.

Thomas rubs his face with his hand, smearing ink across his cheek. He’s splashed with it, though he must have only just started. The ink (my ink, I think) is as much an inconvenience as I am. 

Which is why they’re trying to replace me, under the orders of Mr. Drew. I’m just a thing. Replaceable, I remind myself.

I take a hesitant step forward. I don’t want to be an inconvenience, don’t want to be replaced. I want Thomas to be my friend. He’s not afraid of me, he spoke to me like a person and smiled. He is my friend. So is Wally. I take heart in the fact that I’ve found two friends already.

I offer the toy again, because I know he wouldn’t want me to touch him.

He sighs. “It’s alright, Bendy. You keep your toy. And you, go find Sammy and explain,” Thomas decides with a defeated sigh. “Another person who knows.”

“I guess I could.” Wally doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about talking to Sammy, who I can hear just outside the door, like how I could hear Thomas and Wally talking. Whispers of ‘amazing’ and ‘wonderful’ and ‘terrifying’ which I like less than the other two, but he’s saying in the nicest way. He’s not that far away at all. I can show them.

I leave the two of them to their conversation and open the door again. It’s easier this time. I’m learning. I don’t need to be replaced. It fills me with inordinate pride to be able to pull open the door which such ease and reveal Sammy standing there. He flushes.

“What are you doing?” Thomas asks.

“You can’t expect me to just go back to work after this,” Sammy says haughtily. Like he’s trying to hide something.

“I could hope. But fine.” Thomas gives a quick explanation of my existence to Sammy, who throughout the entire conversation doesn’t take his blue, blue eyes off of me.

“He came from that?” He asks, gesturing at the machine in disbelief. “Something so —“ he cuts himself off. “May I… May I touch you?”

He’s talking to me again. I don’t know how to respond. I’ve touched before (or tried), but nobody wants to touch me. Wally’s right. Sammy  _ is  _ weird. I nod, though pull in on myself, not sure what to expect. I hold my toy protectively close.

His fingers are thin and long, like the rest of him, and warm where they press against my arm. He’s trembling slightly. I can feel it through the contact. He’s afraid, just not like the rest.

“My God. You  _ are _ real,” he murmurs reverently. He’s looking at me, but I feel he’s seeing something very different than what I am. I don’t know if it’s a good thing, so take a shuffling step backwards. His hand lingers in the air, fingertips stained with ink, before he seems to realize there are others in the room.

“I think you need to go back to work,” Thomas says finally, breaking the silence that has fallen. “Mr. Drew won’t like that you’re wasting time here.”

As though only now realizing how strange the situation is, Sammy says something about Mr. Drew not liking anything, but retreats. It makes me feel a little better to hear that Mr. Drew is just that awful all around, not solely towards me because I’m not the Bendy he wants.

Then Sammy is gone and the tension in the room slackens. I look back at Thomas, unsure if he’s still upset. He doesn’t look happy.

“I need a piss break,” he mutters. “Just a break in general.”

He walks past me out of the room. I gaze balefully at the machine, then follow. I want Thomas away from it.

“Bendy — ah, whatever,” Wally says in defeat. I want to be with Thomas, so I will.

Thomas walks toward a pair of doors. I follow. He catches sight of me and holds up a hand. “You can’t be out here, Bendy.” I take another lurching step forward, determined. I won’t lose him again. “You can’t — fine, we’ll go into the bathroom, just be quiet.”

He opens the door for me, and I shuffle past. I’ve grown less wary of doors since my first encounter with them, and trust that he won’t try to lock me in here by myself again. He closes the door behind the both of us and turns something. A lock. But I’m not alone. I’m with Thomas. That’s what matters.

There are smaller doors in a row and Thomas goes toward an open one. I follow.

“No, no, stay out here. I’m drawing the line here.”

I stop, confused. I didn’t know Thomas could draw. I consider if maybe  _ I  _ could draw, and look down at my hands. They’re so malformed, I can’t imagine how I could.

Thomas uses this chance to close the door behind him. I groan at the sudden isolation.

“I’m right here,” he says from behind it. I walk over and realize I can simply look over the door and see him. He sees me, too. “Bendy! Go stand somewhere else.” He sounds flustered and upset. I don’t want him upset with me, and he’s not really  _ left.  _ I retreat and look around the room.

There are pipes here, but I can’t feel them. Something other than ink must run through them. I approach to investigate, but something else catches my attention. Someone’s approaching! I freeze, so do they. Their hands are like my hands, but their face isn’t at all like Bendy’s. It has the grin, but it’s terrifying, dipped in ink. I don’t like it. It looks like some kind of mockery of me.

I want them away, but they aren’t going. I reach forward to shove them, and they reach forward. Our hands touch. There’s a glass surface between us. I drag my hand across it, as do they —

No. No. I realize what this is. It can’t be. I hold up my other hand. They do too. We both have a toy, but only one of them makes a noise when squeezed.

Nononono. I can’t look like this. I can’t be this  _ monster _ . No wonder everyone’s afraid of me. I knew I was wrong but this skeletal, sickly, hideous thing? Even the smile on my face trembles in fear.

They don’t want me. They shouldn’t want me. I’m not Bendy. I’m something Wrong. More wrong than I even realized before.

A flush, the door opens. Thomas comes out. I can see his reflection. He looks fine. Beside me, he looks correct. I’m the wrong thing. I’ve known this, but to see it? It hurts in ways nothing has before. To realize just what others see when they look at me. To realize exactly why they want to replace me.

“That’s you,” Thomas says as though the reality of my life hasn’t just been laid bare for me. I touch my reflection. “It’s a mirror.”

I hate the mirror, too. I hit it with a clenched, cartoony fist, banishing my face in a webwork of cracks. I do it again, again, until there are only fragments all twisted up and splintered.

“What are you doing! Bendy? Bendy!” Thomas calls to me but I can’t look at it anymore, can’t see the truth. I’m ashamed of my actions, the damage I’ve caused, the ink splattered across the mirror and the glass embedded in my hand. I think I should feel it, but I don’t. The only pain is the pain I’ve felt since my creation.

I’ve caused more problems. I go to the wall so that Thomas can’t see my face and I can’t see him anymore. If I could, I would just melt into it, just pass right through into the pipes and disappear.

Then I think why don’t I? Nothing’s stopping me. Nothing says I can’t. The ink behind this wall calls out, like to like. I press my thin, black hand to the wall and it melts into it with only slight resistance. I follow with an instinctual ease.

Suddenly it’s dark. Dark and solitary and silent. I’m alone — I didn’t think — I’m overwhelmed with fear. It’s too dark. 

_ I want out _ .


	5. Chapter 5

I can’t get out. The realization strikes hard and fast. I don’t know which way _is_ out. There’s ink rushing all around me, through me. I’m suddenly everywhere more intensely than just listening, just hearing. I don’t want to be everywhere. I want to be me again, even if I’m wrong and horrific and bad.

Thomas. I can see him without seeing, hear his frantic heartbeat as he presses his hands against the wall and calls out to me. He can’t get to me. I feel very close to him but scattered very far away, as well. I can see Wally, see Sammy, see Mr. Drew and so many others. I can see them, hear them, _feel_ them, and they feel so different from me. It’s too much to process, too much to handle.

I drag my mind through the darkness, back to where I had entered. Thomas stumbles away from the wall, eyes flicking left and right. I force myself onward. The walls undulate with ink. It’s a mighty effort, straining and exhausting, but I manage to push back through the wall. To disentangle myself from the ink in the pipes.

It’s like being saved from drowning when I step into open air again. I can still _feel_ all around me, like my body is just one small part of who I am, but I know where my limbs are, where I am. I step toward Thomas. He steps backwards. He’s afraid. He can’t decide if he should look at me or the ink veins on the walls. I don’t know what those are, but I don’t want him afraid of me, and I know they’re because of me. I want to go back to before. Before the mirror, before the ink machine, back when I just wanted to watch cartoons. I still just want to watch cartoons, see myself (what I’m supposed to be, and maybe can be) play with people who aren’t afraid of me, who sing and dance alongside me.

“It’s — it’s okay, Bendy,” Thomas says. “Just calm down.”

I’m upset and scaring him. I’m a monster. I’ve seen myself; I’ve felt how inhuman I am. I don’t know how to not be upset by this. They want to replace me because of how wrong I am.

He kneels down and picks something up. My toy. I hadn’t realized I’d dropped it. I look down at my mismatched hands. I’d seen so much, and hadn’t even noticed that.

Thomas holds it out for me. It’s mine. It’s me. He calls me Bendy.

I take it gingerly, careful not to let our fingers touch. I don’t want him afraid. I squeak it, and the sound is comforting. The feel of it in my black palm calms me. I’m not in the darkness. I’m not alone. I’m still a monster.

Thomas smiles as the ink on the walls recedes. I smile back, because it’s all I can do. I don’t look at the fractured mirror.

The door rattles, then there’s a knock. “Uh, Thomas?” Wally asks through the wood. “Is Bendy…”

“He’s in here,” Thomas says, unlocking the door. Wally slips inside. He takes in the broken mirror, the splash of ink down the wall where I had — done whatever it is I had done.

“He, uh,” Thomas catches himself, unsure how to describe what happened. “Didn’t like the mirror.”

“I can see.”

“I need to work on the machine.”

I growl. I don’t like the machine. Thomas’ gaze flickers across the walls, looking for those tendrils. But I’m calm now.

Wally doesn’t know to be afraid of them, only that I’m not happy. “He doesn’t wanna leave ya, Tom.”

“I know.”

“He’s like my girl, Wendy. When she was real small, she followed me everywhere ‘n’ would throw the biggest tantrum when I had t’ go t’ work. Or the bathroom. Or anywhere she couldn’t go,” he says with a laugh. My horns sway a little at that. Wendy sounds like my name.

“How’d you get her to not?”

“I took her out for an ice cream sundae, sat her down, and told her she had to be a big, independent girl for her dad.”

Thomas looks at me. I’m not sure what his expression is meant to convey, but he doesn’t seem to know what to do with this information.

“He doesn’t eat.”

“We don’t know that. But we do know he likes toys.”

“I can’t—”

Wally holds up a hand. “Let me give it a try. I’ll figure somethin’ out.”

Thomas doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but I am still here, listening to them as they talk like I’m not. He nods. Wally steps closer and points at my toy. He didn’t see what I had done before. He should be more afraid.

“Do ya wanna go get some friends for your lil pal there?”

I look down at it. I have friends, I think. It should, too. It needs Alice and Boris so it’s not lonely.

I squeak it and move closer to Wally. Thomas leaves first, which cause a moment of panic before he opens the door again and waves us out.

“Let’s take him t’ Heavenly Toys,” Wally whispers.

“What.”

“So he can get more toys. We’ll be real careful.”

“If more people find out…”

“It’ll be fine. Just slip in, let him pick, slip out again. Or introduce him t’ folks. People wouldn’t be so afraid of him if they knew him.”

“Mr. Drew doesn’t want people to know about him.”

“You know that ain’t right of him.”

Thomas is silent. I agree with Wally. I want to meet people. I want to show people that I’m not scary, despite my appearance.

The conversation ends there, and I’m led through empty halls and back passages, Thomas furtively checking every corner, jumping at every sound. I wonder what his thoughts are on the rightness of what Mr. Drew wants.

I pause when I hear light footsteps further around a corner, and Thomas stops too. It takes him a moment longer to hear the sounds, but the panic on his face is immediate once he does.

He shoves Wally ahead of him and moves as though to touch me, before reconsidering. “Just stay — just be quiet,” he says once he realizes there’s no place to hide me. I think about disappearing into the wall again, and just the idea frightens me. I cower behind Thomas instead, as though that would make me any more invisible.

Wally rounds the corner ahead of us.

“Oh, Wally,” a high, familiar voice says. Alice? I look at Thomas in confusion. She’s here, too? Does she look like me, all not-right and twisted? “I was just looking for you.”

“Ya were, Miss Susie?”

“The bathroom in the music department has something on its mirror,” she says. It’s lovely, hearing her voice. I step forward, but catch myself before Thomas stops me. I’m not ready to see her, yet. I wish she was talking to me, but I’m afraid to hear it pitch higher in terror if she _did_ come out right. If she doesn’t know I’m Bendy. “I tried wiping it off but, and this will sound so strange, I think it’s behind the glass? I can’t even see my reflection anymore.”

“That’s real strange,” Wally agrees. “Maybe some water got back there or somethin’. I’ll have a look.”

“Good.”

“It’s what I’m here for.”

Alice’s — Miss Susie? — footsteps recede, and Wally returns to us with a sigh of relief.

“I thought you wanted him to meet people,” Thomas says dryly.

Wally waves his hand. “In time. That, Bendy, was Susie Campbell, the previous voice of Alice Angel.”

I don’t understand the difference in names between Alice and her voice, but can’t express my confusion. I hope one day, though, that I get to meet her, and that she can look beyond my appearance and like me.

We continue on cautiously, but nobody else crosses our path. I’m waved through a door tucked away in a corner, and hesitate only a moment before my gaze alights on what’s beyond. Rows and rows of toys. Bendies piled on Alices piled on Borises. The shelves are crowded close together, making it a tight squeeze for all three of us, but I don’t care. I surge forward as soon as the door closes behind us.

“Bendy, wait —“ Thomas’s words are cut off as I grab the first toy I see, another Bendy, and squeeze. It squeaks, too! I squeak them both, then grab a third. A Boris. I squeeze them all, but only the Bendy toys make a noise. “Shhh,” Thomas hisses, but it’s too late.

“Who all be squeakin’ these toys?” Someone asks. “I’m tryin’ to work here, and it’s very distractin’.”

It’s too late to hide, even if I could. I stand there guiltily, holding a handful of dolls, framed by Thomas and Wally.

“What on God’s green earth,” the man says as soon as he catches sight of me. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t seem to know what to do but gawp.

“He’s harmless,” Wally says. “Just a little project Joey was workin’ on. Nothin’ to worry about.”

“He’s… uh….” the man gives up trying to describe me, and I don’t blame him. Thomas is muttering darkly next to me about yet another person knowing. “That some sorta costume or something?”

“Shawn, this is Bendy. Bendy, Shawn.”

“Nice t’ meet you, Bendy?” Shawn says. He holds out a hand and I look at it, confused. I place Boris in it. He stares at it, then laughs. Finally, someone’s taken my gift! I make a pleased rumble.

“What a strange man you are, Bendy,” Shawn says. “Got a novel take on the character design.” 

“It’s not a costume,” Thomas mutters.

“Ya sure? Looks kinda like one of those mascots that other company we’re not allowed t’ talk about has.”

“It’s not. That’s just how he is.”

Shawn squints at Thomas, before realizing what he’s saying. “Y’ mean…” I don’t know what costumes are, but I liked it better when he thought I was one. Now his gaze travels more slowly over my form, lingers on all the ways I’m wrong. I wish people would stop staring.

“You’re Bendy, then. Actually really him?”

I nod. I can’t talk but I can communicate. I _am_ Bendy, just not quite right.

“You like toys?”

Another nod.

“I got the perfect toy for you, then!” Shawn says. He waves for me to follow him, so, after a look at Thomas who just groans and gestures for me to, I do. I’m lead through more toys and machinery to a table. On it are dolls aplenty, lined up neatly. A pile of them lay separate from the rest. Shawn begins to go through this pile.

I stand there awkwardly until a ball of ink catches my attention. While he looks for whatever it is he is searching for, I poke it, hesitantly. It transforms into an Alice. Poke. Boris. Poke. Bendy. A perfect Bendy, etched in ink. I cycle through a miniature ink machine and the other characters again, before settling on Bendy. The ink can transform. It can change. Does that mean I can, too?

Hope flutters up that I _can_ be fixed.

Shawn calls out to me. I look up though I’d much rather keep playing with the ink. He holds something out for me.

It’s Bendy but…. I take it in hand and hold it next to my original one. Its face isn’t right. Its smile too crooked, the lines outlining the white run into its eyes. It’s wrong, like me. But someone chose to make a toy of it, anyway.

I look up at Shawn.

“You can have that for your collection.”

I tilt my head at the word collection.

“You know, a bunch of things you like that you keep?” He says. “Like those toys.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Thomas says, but it’s far too late.

My collection. Yes.

Wally clears his throat, so I turn my attention to him. “Now that ya made some friends—“ I look back at Shawn and put him firmly in the friend category in my mind. He’s nice, too. And he’s given me a friend for Bendy. I plan for my Bendy toy to have as many if not more friends than I have. “—and got some toys, I think we oughta have a talk.”

I don’t think I’ll like this talk from his tone, but I’m listening.


	6. Chapter 6

Shawn returns to his work, leaving us alone. I want to grab for more toys but I already have my hands full.

“Bendy,” Wally says in a tone I can’t recognize. It’s not disgust, or fear, or disappointment, but it carries with it some great weight. “I know you’re new t’ the world, ‘n’ ya don’t know how things work quite yet, but y’ can’t be holdin’ on to Thomas’ apron strings all th’ time. Y’ gotta be a, uh, good boy and let him do his job.”

I make a distressed grumble at the thought of Thomas’ job.

“Now, I know ya don’t like it, but that’s — that’s part a life, Bendy. Sometimes people gotta do things we don’t like ‘em t’do, but we gotta let ‘em do it, regardless. Ain’t that right, Tom?”

Thomas looks up from his watch, startled to be put on the spot. “Uh, yeah. That’s right. I want to work on the machine as much as you want me to, but if I don’t I get fired.”

I don’t know the word, and they’ve come to understand my confusion.

“I’ll lose my job, Bendy. Lose my paycheck, lose —“

“He’ll lose the ability to come see you _at all_ ,” Wally adds. “Joey won’t let him back in if he doesn’t work here.”

Joey. Causing problems again, threatening Thomas. I growl at the name.

“So ya see, Bendy, y’ gotta let Tom work. Gotta learn t’ be more independent, yeah?” Wally asks me. “‘Stead of followin’ Thomas ‘round all day, you can stand t’ be on your own, can’t ya?”

I don’t want Thomas gone. I don’t want him fired. I nod. I’ll be more independent. I’ll be on my own, though I don’t like the thought at all. It feels like I’m agreeing to be locked up again, to be out of everyone’s way. An inconvenience (at best) elsewise.

“It’s not forever,” Wally assures me.

It feels like it is, I think, skulking and squeezing my Bendy dolls. One squeaks, the other, the one like me, does not. Another way it’s like me.

I take some consolation in the toys. They’re what they’re supposed to be. They do what they’re meant to do.

“We gotta head back to work, though,” Wally continues delicately. I notice the ‘we’. Wally has work too. I’m expected to leave him alone, too, I suppose. “Will you be alright t’ go, uh….” he trails off, looking at Thomas for help. They don’t know what to do with me. They want to abandon me somewhere. Lock me up and hope this time I stay.

Before they can decide, I decide for them. They want me to be independent, so I will be. I’m acting petulantly, I know, but I’m upset at the thought of being left alone again, and having to agree to it.

I think about when I had disappeared into the wall before. It had been frightening, new, but it’s somewhere to be that’s not inconvenient to them. So they can _work_. I shamble over to the nearest wall, where I can feel ink pumping behind it like blood beneath skin.

“Bendy —“ Thomas says, but his words are cut off as I melt into the wall, toys clutched firmly in hand this time.

The darkness is as all-encompassing as before, but more familiar now. I know it better. I’m still afraid of this strange melding of myself and the ink around me, but I’m more upset at being abandoned again.

I listen to the sounds of people all around me, workers just doing their jobs. Thomas is hissing at the wall for me to come back out, and I think I won’t. _Now_ he wants me around him. When me not being around is a problem. I listen instead to the others. Most talk about things I don’t understand, papers and taxes and — and drawings. Animations.

I want to see them drawing me. Maybe they can help me be what I’m supposed to be.

Suddenly, with a strange sense of motionlessness despite having moved halfway across the studio, I’m in the wall just between two desks. Animators sit at them, talking to each other or bent over their drawings, working diligently at recreating every motion, every expression of Bendy and his friends.

I think of Shawn and how easily he accepted me. I think of the mirror and my mangled visage. They’re incongruous with each other. Perhaps these people will understand that I’m harmless, despite how I look. I just want to see what they’re doing.

I watch them through the walls a little longer, warring internally about showing myself, or hiding myself away like Thomas wants me to do. ‘People wouldn’t be so afraid of him if they knew him’ Wally had said. The animators know me. They draw me every day.

They scream when I step out of the wall in the middle of them. No thought, just panic. My horns lay back at the onslaught of noise, and I hiss at the chaos. They don’t understand. I’m what they draw every day and yet —

I’m back in the wall. The ink and darkness are now a comfort to me, because it’s not screaming, not fleeing in blind terror. It’s amazing how quickly one’s views can change when faced with such revulsion. The ink has become a place for me to escape, to hide, to observe.

That’s not me on the pages they’ve left abandoned. I watch and feel as an overturned ink pot drips down and soaks into the paper, soaks into and drowns out Bendy’s smile.

I flit around inside the ink, exploring just how far my reach is within it. I can see everything, a giant, twisting labyrinth of pipes and barrels and empty spaces between the ink. It stretches down and down into the earth itself it feels. I hear fragments of conversations wherever I choose to focus.

Men are working on boxes with signs on them — “Nobody can get into these damn Miracle Stations” — I wonder what power they have to deny everyone entry. I spot Wally rubbing hard at a mirror, which I’m glad to see is clouded over and impossible to clean. I hear another person, several floors away, complaining that the bathroom mirror there, too, is clouded over. That’s just fine with me. I don’t like mirrors. I’d be happier if they _all_ stopped working.

The animators I saw earlier are chattering in distress. I tune them out instantly. I don’t want to hear them. I avoid looking for Thomas, too, because it hurts to think about him (even if I’d rather be there with him).

There’s a pattern to all this. Every person is working, or was working before I interrupted. They all have purpose and meaning that I don’t. I feel alone, hiding in the walls watching without participating. Unwanted. Out of place. It’s better that I’m here, away from them. I know this, but… I still crave their companionship, well after I should have learned my lesson.

Then my regard passes over someone else I recognize: Sammy. He isn’t working like the others. He’s hunched over a desk, murmuring lowly to himself, words that I can’t quite pick up through the walls. He doesn’t seem to be doing anything else.

I remember Sammy, and remember he was strange - that he made me feel uncomfortable, even. Wally and Thomas didn’t seem to like being around him. But he also didn’t run or scream. He looked at me with… awe? Which is weird and kind of scary. Awe seems better than disgust and terror, though.

Maybe Sammy wouldn’t mind me being there. Some company is better than this emptiness, I think.

Still I hesitate a second more. Then, angry at being abandoned, I seep from the wall behind Sammy. My two toys are still clutched tight in my grip - I’m pleased that they traveled with me this time. If nothing else, I do have those. I squeak the one to announce my presence.

Sammy makes a very bizarre noise and then his limbs are flailing. He practically falls off his chair. I squeak my toy again.

“Bendy,” he gasps.

I can’t deny the little furl of happiness at hearing my name.

“Where did you-?” he looks to the door, then to the ink fading on the wall behind me. “You can travel through the walls,” he breathes.

I can.

“Incredible.” Shakily he stands. His eyes are such an intense blue. I sway a bit, uncertain about what’s expected of me. “I half thought I was dreaming when I first glimpsed you. But here you are again.”

He’s staring. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.

“One does wonder,” he says softly, “what other abilities you might possess.”

Abilities? I think of the stepping-through-walls, which the others in the studio don’t seem to be able to do. I think of the veins of ink that had scrawled over all surfaces when I was upset. These are the abilities he means – these and perhaps others I don’t yet know. He’s the only individual to respond to those with curiosity rather than terror.

There’s an ugly, rebellious sort of feeling in my chest. Yes, I want to show him other abilities, ones that would make Thomas displeased (part of me hurts: I don’t really want to displease Thomas – but him wanting to lock me up again, that hurts too, and so does being a monster, and so does everyone else working while I’m cast aside).

Yes, I’ll show Sammy something.

I…

Don’t know what to show him, actually. Neither the walking-through-walls nor the veins of ink were things I did deliberately at first. They simply came to me. I could show him the veins of ink, maybe, because he hasn’t seen those yet, but I don’t know how to make that happen on purpose. I’m not sure I _want_ to, either. It had only happened when I was very upset, and it scared me as well as Thomas.

This is very awkward. We’re staring at each other in silence.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stutters, “If I’ve upset you in some way…” His gaze drops. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

I don’t know who my Lord is, but I liked it when he called me Bendy. I make a keening noise to get his attention.

Sammy’s head snaps up. I squeak the toy. I’m Bendy.

“Ah, of course,” he says, and I’m relieved that he knows what I mean. “You do seem to love this show, for whatever reason I cannot fathom. I produce the music for it,” he says proudly. “Would… would you care for some music, my Lord?”

Oh. He doesn’t understand. But music! I like music. The cartoons I watched had such fun music. I nod. I want music, yes.

Sammy dives for an instrument leaning up against the wall. In seconds, he’s sitting back down, taking a deep breath, and putting his fingers to the strings. The noise it makes at first startles me, because it’s twangy and sharper than the sounds in the cartoons I had watched. But the plucking of strings produces a bouncy, uplifting tune. It’s _different_ than the music in the cartoons, but very similar. That bubbly feeling sprouts in my chest, and I think again about the characters dancing on screen - Bendy, Boris, Alice. Only shame stifles my desire to move with the music. I know how weird I look.

Still, I quietly enjoy the tune, until Sammy’s fingers falter and stop. “D-does this please you?” he asks.

Yes. More. I wiggle my horns.

He excitedly begins again. I can’t help rocking to the tune, just a bit, even though I know it’s weird.

It occurs to me that Sammy is doing this all for me, like how Wally and Shawn gave me plushes, how Thomas tried to feed me and tends after me. I ought to give Sammy something in return (maybe he won’t want to leave me then?).

I recall the curious little ink blot in the toy area, the one that changed shape whenever I poked it. Perhaps I can do something like that for Sammy. I look about in the room for something to change.

“My Lord?” Sammy prompts, and the music dies into nothing. “Is there something you need?”

His radio. I transfer both my plushes to one hand, and reach with my free hand to the radio. I recognize it as a radio, as it’s close to one I’d seen in the cartoons, though it looks wrong. Too solid, too smooth and shiny on parts. I can change it. I think.

Ink bubbles up from the desk like a fresh wound, like it’s soaked into the wood and just needs to be squeezed out. It crawls up the sides of the radio, until it’s enveloped. Slowly, slowly, the ink sinks into the radio, absorbed by its wood and metal and glass.

What’s left is still recognizable as a radio, though it’s sketchier, drawn on. The gloss of the wood is gone, replaced by a more sepia tone.

I make a pleased purr that only gets louder when I see the wonder on Sammy’s face. Not horror, not fear, not even polite acceptance. He’s awe-struck by my gift.

“Bendy,” he gasps, trembling fingers reaching forward to touch the radio. He strokes them gently over the sides, over the knobs, as though he can’t believe that it’s real.

I can’t either, and I’m the one that made it.


	7. Chapter 7

Sammy’s fingers dance over the radio, then he experimentally turns one of the dials. Music, scratchy and jaunty, pours out. We listen to it, a quick light piano like what Sammy played with a rapid beat. It sounds frenetic and strange, as though it’s being warped as it plays.

“It still works,” Sammy muses. “This is amazing. Bendy — my Lord, you can alter the world— you could change anything you please.”

I stand a little straighter at the praise. Sammy’s so pleased with me. I don’t know why I thought he was weird (well, I still think he’s a little strange). He’s so nice to me. I wish Thomas was like that, instead of horrified by what I can do.

The thought of Thomas saddens me. I left so abruptly. But, I remind myself, he wanted time away from me. To work on that  _ machine _ . 

The music cuts out. “My Lord?” Sammy asks, expression wary. His eyes aren’t on me, but the walls around me. They’re writhing with ink. I didn’t realize how much my hatred for the machine bled out into the world. I focus, trying to rein it back in. There are happier things to focus on, like Sammy and my collection.

The ink fades away, and I’m relieved when Sammy’s expression relaxes as well, though it morphs into that strange reverent silence. I remember why I thought he was weird. I think about leaving again, but don’t have anywhere else to go. Sammy’s the only one who wants me around.

The door to Sammy’s office rattles, distracting both of us, then Wally appears in the large window to the side of it. He beats against the glass like he’ll break it if Sammy doesn’t let him in.

With a sigh and muttered curses, Sammy bows to me then shuffles over to the door. Wally all but collapses once he’s inside. “Bendy! We’ve been looking all over for ya — the animators —“

I don’t want to think about the animators, but now it’s at the forefront of my thoughts. How they cowered and ran. I had just wanted to watch them work, wanted to be understood.

“He’s fine here,” Sammy says, cutting off any other words. I turn my attention to him and he looks inordinately pleased. “He came to me.”

“Sammy, he ain’t s’posed t’ be — what’s that?” Wally points at the radio, and we all take it in. It’s distinctly out of place here, more what it should be than what it was before.

“A radio, obviously.”

“That’s not what I meant. What’s wrong with it?”

_ Wrong _ , again. I lower my head, not wanting to look at my work anymore.

“Bendy’s more powerful than you seem to realize. You treat him like a child, but he’s a god. He can walk through walls, make radios into cartoons. He can change reality, Wally.”

I don’t know the word god, but I don’t like the way Wally reacts to it. I don’t want to be a god. I want to be Bendy. I  _ am  _ Bendy. I squeak my toy.

“What are you talking about? He’s not — he’s just a — well I don’t know, but he ain’t no god. Yer delusional, Sammy. C’mon, Bendy,” Wally says, gesturing for me to follow him. I look between Sammy, with his feverishly bright blue eyes, and Wally, staid and placid and only a little unnerved. I feel bad that Wally doesn’t like my radio, but I think I want to be away from Sammy for a little while.

I go with Wally. Sammy’s gaze I feel on my back as we leave his office and even after.

For a bit, Wally doesn’t say anything, but he seems like he wants to. It occurs to me that he’s uneasy, although I’m not sure how I know. It makes sense: a lot of people are uneasy around me. Even Wally, it seems, but that stings, because Wally is so accepting of me. 

I hope he feels better soon. I’m in the midst of figuring out how I might help him feel better when he finally says,

“Now Bendy, don’t go - don’t go turnin’ radios into cartoon radios or nothin’ like that, okay?”

Because it’s wrong. I try to make myself look small.

Wally continues, “people’ll take to ya better if you  _ don’t _ change around reality, yanno? They’re used ta things how they are.”

My horns slick back. I emit a meek noise.

Wally half turns towards me and gives me a smile. “C’mon, Bendy. Just give it time, ’n you’ll grow on people. Important thing is givin’ it time! I don’t mean t’be a big downer.”

Yeah, maybe he’s right. But it’s hard to believe. Especially when I keep messing things up left and right. I raise my toy and squeeze it for comfort. It doesn’t squeak.

I squeeze it again, harder. It makes an ugly, unhappy noise. A little like a squeak, but hoarser and strained. The sound is immediately distressing because it seems like the toy is in  _ pain _ \- I know that isn’t true, that the toy can’t feel anything, but it hurts to see that smiling (now ink-stained) face, incongruent with the awful noise it’s making. 

I try a third time, and the result is even worse. 

By this time, my actions have attracted Wally’s attention, and he’s frowning my way. “Aw, your toy is broken,” he says, brow scrunched together. “I’m sorry about that, buddy.”

Broken? My fingers clench tightly around it. No, I don’t want it to be broken. I hold it out to Wally desperately. Maybe he can fix it?

He takes it in his hands and experimentally squeezes - I cringe from the dying noise. 

“I think it’s got ink in the squeaker somehow,” he conveys sadly. “We’ll get you a new one, Bendy.”

Ink in the squeaker.  _ I _ ruined it. It’s my fault it doesn’t work anymore. 

I halt.

“We’ll get you a new one,” Wally repeats. “But we gotta keep walking. Gotta bring ya back.”

No. 

I look at the ink-riddled toy in Wally’s hand. I knew I was staining it, and ruining it, but I didn’t realize I’d ruin the noise too - and I’ll ruin any other toy Wally is kind enough to get me. My chest feels tight, like there’s an unpleasant force tugging it all in. I don’t have any squeaker to help me feel better. 

“Bendy-” Wally looks cautious. Like he thinks I’m going to lash out or something. “Come on-”

No, he’s just going to find some place to put me again, where I won’t bother his or Thomas’ work. I don’t want to have that happen again. I can take care of myself. 

Resolute, I turn to the nearest wall. 

“Wait-” Wally dives forward as if to stop me, but I step right through the wall before he can. 

Back into the ink, away from people.

  
  
  


I don’t come out for a while, instead stay hidden and scattered throughout the studio. I watch everyone from the safety of the walls. The animators animate, the musicians play music, Wally is frantically searching for me. Thomas works on the machine. I see it all, but feel isolated from them. I’m nobody, nothing. I’m wrong. They don’t want me around.

“...should be Alice…. doesn’t deserve…” Words filter into my thoughts from a familiar voice. One I’ve heard before, in person and on the screen. I focus my attention on her, the one familiar thing.

She’s wonderful. Not quite like the cartoon, but not malformed and asymmetrical like I am. No horns, either, but she’s wearing a golden band across her dark hair, and her lips are painted black as her dress.

Alice is pacing in front of a fogged over mirror in the bathroom, muttering to herself, her usually beautiful voice turned low and bitter. She’s sad. Tears are running down her face, and her skin is blotchy and red.

I don’t like seeing her like that. She was so calm and happy in the cartoons, on the posters and cutouts.

“ _ I’m  _ Alice Angel,” she tells herself, squinting in the mirror and adjusting her hair. “Does Allison have this dedication?  _ No _ . She doesn’t respect the role. She doesn’t respect me. Nobody does, especially not Joey. Reduced to an extra! Back to toasters and trees! The nerve of that man. I’ll be Alice. I’m almost perfectly her. Just— just—” her anger gives way to sobbing, and she slaps the mirror. It reminds me of myself, when I saw what I looked like. How wrong I was. I know how she feels. “I just want to be Alice.”

Joey, again. He’s upset Alice. He’s a monster. I want her to be happy.

I approach cautiously this time, afraid of scaring her with how wrong I am, especially when she’s so close to  _ right _ . But she and Bendy are friends. She’ll understand.

She sees my shadow in the blurry mirror before she sees me. “Go away,” Alice says. “Find a different bathroom.”

When I don’t leave, she whips around angrily. Even upset, she’s so almost perfectly Alice. Her cheeks are round and soft and unblemished, her hair is black and long, her dress clings close to her body. She even has a little bow like mine. Not exactly like her cartoon counterpart, but neither am I. But she is trying her best to look like her.

Besides, it’s Alice! I’m not alone. I make a happy keening noise, and she takes a step back. It’s Alice, and she needs to look like Alice and I can help her! I can make her feel better! Just like Sammy’s radio. Maybe  _ I _ can’t be a perfect Bendy like I want to be, but she - she’s already so close!

Swirling ink lathers the walls and floor. I’ll help. She’ll be Alice, just like she wants. 

Her lower back strikes the countertop. The inky shadows converge upon her, and disappear into her.

“Wh-what — what is —“ her voice cuts off as her gaze drops to her hands. They’re trembling. She’s trembling all over. Her voice dies in her throat with a pained gurgle. Alice stumbles, eyes wide. More tears leak out, but soon stop. That must be good, I think. Alice shouldn’t cry. She should be happy!

Slowly, slowly, she sinks to her knees. 

She touches her body, as though it’s not real, touches her face and her hair which now lays exactly like Alice’s. Her hands crawl higher as ink blossoms on her arms. Two horns protrude from her head, and she flinches from her own fingers. They come away stained with bright red ink. A bone-white halo begins to form. It’s a little lopsided, oozing red and tangled with strands of her hair. A few noises, nothing resembling words, drip from her black lips.

The change is gradual, shifting her from flesh to ink. The color drains from her body, leaving her in shades of sepia. Even the ink on her fingertips is now black and blends in with her skin.

I grin down at her. She’s stopped crying, and she looks so much more like Alice now! It’s not perfect, but was easy as changing the radio. I’m sure I can get it right with some more practice. It makes me feel good to be able to help, and I can ignore how bad I feel about my toy.

I wait impatiently for her to speak. I want to hear her talking to me, like she does with Bendy in the cartoons. Maybe she will even sing!

She tries to form words, lips moving but silent, like the old cartoons. I kneel with aching slowness in front of her. Even kneeling I loom over her. She rolls her head back on her neck to peer up at me. Why isn’t she talking? Doesn’t she want to? 

I reach forward to touch her, as though she’s not real until I do, as though maybe my contact can pull a response. Her cheek is warm beneath my hand. I internally plead for her to sing for me, or to talk, just verbalize  _ something _ .

Her skin warps under my palm, like old, gelatinous ink. It tears, twists, and ink leaks from the openings. I can see her teeth through the gaps. I yank my hand back with a startled noise. I didn’t mean — I didn’t know —

Her chest heaves as she struggles to breathe, and her teeth click open and closed, open and closed, hypnotic in their movements. One eye’s gone entirely dark, but the other is perfect, wide and glittering. I fixed her then I  _ ruined _ her. All with a simple, toxic touch. I’m afraid to touch her again, lest I make it worse. And I don’t know quite how I fixed her in the first place to repeat the process. I just wanted to, and it happened.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Alice. I wish I could speak and say it aloud.

Instead, I run away again.


End file.
